“To change one’s life: Start immediately. Do it flamboyantly. No exceptions.” ~William James
I’ve been fired once before. From an assitive living community where Pat Riley’s mother once resided. Though to be honest I had a thing for the Knicks. And this was long before they were so awful that people bet 2:1 on their loss. I even had one of this giant puffy Starter jackets that precluded me from entering a doorframe anyway except for sideways but it still made me feel all bad ass. Me and my clarinet.
But my firing. I was 16 I would imagine. And the firing was done by some cross-eyed woman named Mary with white hair and glasses so thick that when she removed them I was shocked by the size of her eyeballs. They were so, so…tiny. And she fired me over the phone for leaving early one day. I didn’t check off my closing side-work and so I was let go.
I spent the next week sobbing into my toast thinking that I would never ever have another job again. For if I couldn’t make it in the food service industry picking up applesauce droplets from already stained tablecloths then I would and could be nothing in this world. I would be the least successful person ever and have to reside in my mother’s basement on an uncomfortable futon. No school would ever take me. And I’d end up on the street. The end.
Of course none of that happened I ended up getting into a perfectly acceptable university and graduating and everything! I even got a job! Three jobs! And here I sit in a comfortable Queen sized bed able to tell the tale.
My second firing happened today. Today I got fired from a part-time writing gig but still FIRED. Even saying it sounds wrong. The way it rolls off of my tongue and the harshness of the ‘f’ sound at the start of the word. Nothing about ‘fired’ sounds gentle though I suppose that it’s supposed to conjure up imagery of anything but gentle. Hearing the words come out from 1,000 miles away was like being shoved into an outdoor pool in the middle of December. It’s that initial shock of the chill that gets you at your core. Tears spring to your eyes as you tread back to the ladder. Those few feet feel like forever as you try to gasp for air but it’s only a few feet as you reach out and grasp onto the ladder.
Once out the initial shock dissipates but the stunned and the hurt feelings linger. It doesn’t mean the end of anything or the beginning of something. At least not at first. It’s just anger. It’s name calling and irrational tears even when you know that it was coming.
The time had come. I knew so. They knew so. I yelled and waited for it and practically taunted and begged for it to happen and it did. I can force blame and say the who, where, what and how and if you don’t like me tell me. I can say all of that bullshit to make myself feel better but what’s the use. It’s done. And to be honest there’s only so much one can write about being a 20-something on the path to acceptance of life and career. Hell, this would make an excellent post that shit happens and how to manage the shit of life with everything else. But they don’t teach, Man The Fuck up 101.
So, I’ve been fired. I’m not sure what I have to offer. But what’s that thing about the door closing and windows opening but probably not wide enough lest some recently fired individual jump out. But I still feel like something good is in the air.
At least that’s what I’ll tell myself every time I repeat the words; ‘you’re fired’.
Panic
“Panic is a sudden desertion of us, and a going over to the enemy of our imagination.” ~Christian Nevell Bovee
On Martha’s Vineyard there is a popular spot called South Beach. It’s popular because of the beauty and intensity of the waves. They’re body surfing, boogie boarding, let’s ride it out, type waves. Garrett and I would drag our mother out to Edgartown, which is a hike in the way everything is a lengthy trip on vacation. Like seriously, you want me to walk to the end of the driveway? And then you use telepathy to get the mail to your doorstep. Pretty much like that.
Garrett and I would first go toe deep into the water getting used to the temperature and then we’d slowly wade in until we were ready to dare each other to dunk our entire bodies in. With a count to three we’d be in and the water would be glorious. That chill would be gone and we’d swim out a little deeper. Now here is something you should know about my mother; when she was about eight years old she went to Jones Beach with her brothers, cousins and father. While at the beach she went out too far into the waves and almost drowned. She survived – duh – and I swear to God, I could not make this up if I tried, when she got home she went bike riding and was hit by a car.
My mother almost drowned and then got hit by a car within four hours thus spending the remainder of the summer in a wheelchair with a cast on her arm and leg. And then I wonder why she doesn’t ‘feel my pain’ when I have a sinus infection. Probably because I can use both of my legs.
All of that said, she is no fan of the water. I mean she’ll go out into it but having once almost drowned she’s far more respectful of the water. Whereas Garrett and I are practically fearless and will wade out until we can no longer touch and await the waves. God, I love that rush of the waves. When you can spot them coming and start to swim back only to have them take you away. That rush of being carried and weightless. But then there are those other moments, anyone who has experienced a beach knows what I am speaking of. When the waves carry you and you’re underneath but hark! There is another one at its tail and the next thing you know as you rise up out from the surf there is another wave to knock you back over. And then again. Again. Again. Your body hitting the sandy bottom. Moments later you’re standing up looking towards the beach thinking, holy fuck, did you see that? But no one ever notices as you gasp and catch your breath while shimmying to get the sand out of those unfortunate places. Upon landing back at your towel you wonder how long you were under there for? How long did the waves have you in their grasp? It was only a few minutes you realize, but, my God, it felt like eternity.
I have been having panic attacks lately. Three in the past four days. So awful they were that they rendered me unable to fulfill my best friend duties and left me under the covers, tears in my eyes, telling myself that things would be ok. My aforementioend best friend asked me what they felt like and I told her about the waves, about not being able to get up and take a deep breath and in those few minutes of struggling for a full breath it seems as if hours go by. Later I would explain to my doctor that it was only a few minutes. In response she told me that they were probably due to ‘anticipatory anxiety’ though I just say it’s due to ‘general fucked up-ness’.
My most recent panic attack was in a parking lot next to my car. Wind was whipping and it was frigid so I wheezed my way into my car but I didn’t cry. I just teared upon the realization that to live like this was surely not living at all. I’ve spent the past several weeks under waves trying to get up. If I stay down there, I’ll drown. It’s these instances when I need someone to yell at me and tell me to stand because my feet touch. And just like that, I can breathe again.